The Devil's Advocate
by Gray Glube
Summary: "If I let you touch me will you leave me alone?" The question, delivered dry and coupled with her stare, makes him disgusted with himself and unbearably excited in equal measures. Companion piece to The Devil's Double by ohyellowbird


**Author:** grayglube

**Title:** The Devil's Advocate

**Summary:** "If I let you touch me will you leave me alone?" The question, delivered dry and coupled with her stare, makes him disgusted with himself and unbearably excited in equal measures. Companion piece to The Devil's Double by ohyellowbird

**Rating:** M

**Warning(s)/Kinks: **Language, Sexual situations, Dubious Consent, Threesome, Faux incest, Pseudo twincest, Slash

**Spoilers:** All of S1 episodes, nothing specific just an overall.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own American Horror Story.

**A/N:** Companion piece to ohyellowbird's "The Devil's Double," if you haven't read it do so now otherwise there are some things in this fic that will confuse the heck out of you. Any _he_ or _him_ in italics is referring to Langdon. I think it's pretty clear which 'him' is Tate and which is Langdon, the italics aren't used every time, just when necessary.

* * *

><p>He goes into the study because he knows she's there, reading quietly, unconcerned, distracted. He goes in because he can't find his worser half and he's scared of where else besides the basement he may be.<p>

Scared of where _he's_ lurking.

Scared that _he_ looks like him.

She's doing little more than staring at her book and puffing absently on her cigarette. It takes her a long moment but she snubs it out and picks her eyes up from the black and white of her sentences and closes the book.

She says his name, she knows he's there. Watching her. Her tone is clipped and unamused. He appears and she stares, her mouth a thin white line. When he sits on the couch next to her she turns her head to stare but says nothing. When he takes her book from her limp hand she stares and says nothing. When he takes her hand and bows his head, in shame, dodging her icicle stare, she stares and says nothing.

"Violet."

"I hate you." Her fingers tangle in his hair and yank his head back, it hurts and her nails are talon sharp.

"I know," he winces. And her grip just tightens, the muscles in his neck bulging and burning from how hard she's pulled his head back.

"I hate you."

She slaps him. Not hard, just a harsh pat, condescending and half-hearted, like she's world weary.

"Violet."

She grabs at the meat and muscle of his chest and her nails are sharp edges even through the fabric of his shirt and it hurts, she twists and tightens her grip like she wants to tear off his skin, "Fuck you."

"Violet."

He snaps his head forward and grabs her thumbs, twisting them so she can't hold handfuls of hair and flesh in tight, angry fists. He watches her lips curl into a sneer and her chin tilt up, haughty, pissed off, devoid of any affection for him, without any sentiment beyond one of loathing anger.

"If I let you touch me will you leave me alone?"

The question, delivered dry and coupled with her stare, makes him disgusted with himself and unbearably excited in equal measures.

"I have left you alone."

"You're here."

"…I'm sorry."

"Touch me."

He runs a shaky palm over her cheek and hopes she'll press into it, let him cradle her jaw and kiss her, hopes she'll cry for him, tell him she's missed him, anything besides the apathy, the faded fire of dispassionate hate in her stare, she stares and scowls.

"Not like that."

Her nails scrape across his knuckles when she grabs his hand and puts it on her thigh, on her hip, he can feel the crenulations of her shorts' waistband before his palm is forced up her rib-shaded shade, under her shirt, onto her small breast, her nipple a firm little nub in the middle of his barely cupped palm.

"If I let you fuck me will you leave me alone at night?"

Her eyes find his, stare, and her eyes are static while his own feel like they're shaking.

"I do leave you alone at night."

Her eyes slit half shut, vaguely angry.

"Liar. I feel it, you touch me. When I'm asleep. I feel it. Funny game, Tate."

His other hand is forced up her other thigh, up her shorts, he feels the elastic of her underwear under his fingertips and her thigh hard under the heel of his hand.

"I don't."

"Fuck me and get it out of your system."

His fingers twitch under her own while they slide higher, inwards, he makes a fist and feels the shape of her sex on his knuckles.

"Stop it."

"Come on!"

His eyes open, he never noticed he'd closed them, her face is blank even when she's bucked onto the ridges of his scarred knuckles.

"No."

When he pushes her away her torso tumbles over the arm of the couch and he hears the sharp crack of her elbows on the wood floor, the bang of her hands coming down to stop her face from hitting the ground.

"…"

She makes a soft sound, a groan kept in her throat while she rides out the waves of pain going up her arms into her shoulders.

"Shit." He moves reaching to pull her back and tries not to stare at the curves of her ass peeking out from the bottom of her loose shorts or the shadow of elastic lines across her pert bottom underneath or the bare indented curve of her spine from her tee-shirt draping down her body towards her shoulders and neck and the floor.

Her hips cant back at him, her toes pressing into his knees, she arches and tilts like an animal in heat, seductive, but it's a movement of pattern, all mechanical, methodical, and it makes his stomach cold.

"Do it." Her hand reaches up from the floor, her arm twisting around and her fingers tugging at the side of her shorts, her hips and ass shimmying them down to puddle on the backs of her bent knees.

"…" His tongue is swollen and useless in his mouth. For a moment he wonders if he even has one or if his mouth has disappeared from his face, it feels like it has.

He shifts closer, smoothing a hand up her calf, he watches her toes curl toward her sole, she's anxious and it's no longer in the same way as before when he used to touch her but still he strokes the mound of her sex through floral print cotton with the back of his hand, fluttering his fingers as he pulls his hand away, gentle little taps and drags and his fingers come away with the damp strings of her arousal trailing from the wet spot on her panties to his knuckles to thin and break almost before he really sees them, but he feels them.

"I don't want to look at your face anyway," she grounds the words out bitter and resentful.

He wonders if she's as ashamed as he is. He still gets her wet and she still gets him hard and they're both pathetic for it, there's no pride in the sentiment of what they can do to each other anymore because she doesn't want him and he doesn't want her like this.

"Is this what you want?" He asks even though her answer doesn't matter, he's already dragging the crotch of her panties to the side, holding it against her thigh with his thumb, his ring catching on the elastic.

"Yes."

"Liar."

It doesn't matter he's undone his belt already and is working at his jeans and he's a liar too. It's always been his thing, and he thinks maybe it's always been her's too.

"You don't care. I'm letting you. Touch me, fuck me, I still don't forgive you."

Forgiveness is just a word with a definition he doesn't give a shit about after he's pushed in.

Wet, tight, hot, all over again.

"I hate you."

He pumps in and out of slick heat and her 'I hate you's' and apathy mean as much as anyone else's, they mean nothing. He wishes it bothered him more. But it doesn't.

"I know."

He knows and he kind of hates her too.

"I hate it when you touch me."

"I haven't," he persists because it's getting old to listen to her broken record accusations, true or not, because he doesn't want her to talk, he can't pretend they're just teenagers fucking in the family den with her talking.

"I touch you."

He heart drags painfully across the inside of his chest when it loses a beat.

Langdon is looking at her, not him, but still it makes him glare over Violet at the mirror image of himself sitting on the floor in front of her and he watches her neck twist and her head tilt to look up at his doppelganger.

"Evil twin?" He hears her say without a hint of irony, he realizes there probably isn't much that can surprise her anymore.

"Something like that."

"Go away," he punctuates with a harder thrust than he means.

Langdon laughs and when Violet twists again it's to look back at him, the curve of her mouth cruel and malicious. "Stay."

Langdon smiles up at him and shifts closer to Violet, his legs folding and his hands grabbing her elbows to let her rest her folded arms on his knees, she sighs, and both him and the specter of his worst parts know it's from the relief of not having her skin chafed raw by the wood floor with every thrust.

He can't help but be thankful the arm of the couch isn't lower, it's enough that her long hair lies across the lap of the thing that looks like him, he'd have to drag her body back closer to him if her head got any closer to _him _and his dick.

"What's your name?"

"Langdon."

"How carbon copy original."

"Thanks."

He hears her sigh, heavily, broken.

"You're just another lie."

"More like a dirty secret."

"Skeletons."

It's annoying how they ignore him; exclude him while he's still inches deep inside her body, "Shut up."

"Fuck you."

He can't help but flounder a bit because it's Violet telling him, not his twin.

"I really like you, Violet." There are fingers in her hair, soothing, gentle and her insides clench when they stroke the back of her neck, they're Langdon's fingers and she likes them the way she used to like his.

"Shut up." It's a hiss, he closes his eyes and tries to block out the toothy smile that gleams up at him in response, tries to concentrate on Violet, how good she feels, but he's distracted.

"I fucked your mom."

"Don't lie for him."

"Okay, I guess we both did, kinda. I fucked her, but I'm still him so…you know. Couldn't stand to see Missus Montgomery sad but he couldn't man up and just do it."

"Great."

Her breath hitches, he hears it, his eyes are closed, he doesn't want to watch the way his twin's hands touch her while he fucks her.

"He's sentimental, he can stick his dick in you even though he knows he shouldn't but he can't do it to anyone else, cause he only loves you and he thinks that makes it okay."

His eyes open, he glares. Hard. Angry. His chest heaves, he wants to strangle the boy that looks like him.

"Kinda funny, right?"

He has no idea who Langdon is talking to, but _he_'_s_ looking at him.

"Hilarious," she deadpans, but not quite. He hears the rattle in her voice that she covers with a watery cough.

"Letting him fuck you and wanting him to fuck you are two different things, which one is this? Really?"

"…," she's quiet, horribly quiet.

He can't see her face but he knows what it looks like.

A sickening wave of arousal rolls through his groin. He cums, violently, "Go away." He pushes the command out between his teeth.

Langdon is gone when he opens his eyes and he groans, never more thankful in his life.

She's still and quiet and breathing heavily underneath him. He pulls out, moves his hand and fixes her underwear before reaching under her hips, to the front of her body, down between her legs. She didn't cum, the notion bothers him, she's never not cum before, he's always been sure to get her to the same high as him.

Her hand grabs his and his fingers grind together in her tight grip; she pushes him and his hand away from her.

He watches her spine roll up in increments and then her body turn and swing off the couch onto to floor with a heavy thud that makes a mug on the coffee table shake. She props up on her forearms and recovers from her head rush with closed eyes. When she opens them they're calm, cold, dead. She stares at him, leaning back with her tee shirt rucked up high on her stomach and her shorts around her knees and a red flush still burning high on her cheeks.

"Now leave me alone, don't touch me at night, don't ever touch me again, don't look at me, don't spy on me, d-…"

The hand over her mouth makes her eyes widen, but she doesn't move, she goes statue still and for a moment her eyes shift to the side as if they can swivel to the back of her head and see whose hand has stopped her speech.

"You talk too much. It's very unattractive."

He's back. Knelt behind her, holding her softly like she's a wounded animal, his mouth on her ear, soothing her.

"What are you doing?" He asks, he already knows.

"She didn't cum." His eyes gleam, like an animal's. Playful. Excited.

"…"

He says nothing, she says nothing and for a moment he thinks it's because _his_ hand is still over her mouth, but it isn't. It's stroking the soft skin of her stomach held taut and shaking while a thumb dips into her navel.

Langdon smiles against the side of her throat, brushing hair away from her face, "She wants to. You're gonna leave her alone and she's going to go upstairs and cry while she touches herself and she'll taste you on her fingers when she licks them, and then she'll cry even more."

"Leave her alone."

All _he _does is catch the edge of her tee shirt on the side of his hand and push it up so her delicate ribs stand out in stark display against the black cotton. He watches his twin's fingers trip down them, watches her breath hitch, her belly concave in a flutter.

_It's_ eyes are black. Maybe she isn't scared at all; maybe Langdon is an incubus, a demon thing. He isn't but it would make things easier if he was.

"Make her cum. Lick her until she cries and I'll stop touching her."

"She doesn't like that."

He's tried once before, forever ago, she squirmed and blushed and having him kiss and lick and write letters with his tongue on her like that just made her uncomfortable in her own skin, she told him as much.

"Yes she does. She's a liar, she likes it."

"…," she stares at him, he stares back, and she says nothing.

"Tell him," his twinbreathes and her small body shakes. Fear, anxiety, excitement, arousal. Something, everything, he doesn't know, and he doubts she really knows either.

Her legs unfold and she slumps back against a body that doesn't just feel similar or familiar but exactly the same as the boy in front of her. Her feet work to remove her own shorts, she pushes them away with her toes and she knees knock together limply.

"Tell him you're a liar and I won't touch you anymore. Say: I'm a liar."

"Stop it," he lunges to put his hands around his twin's throat but she shifts her knees towards where he moves and he feels them against his stomach, pushing him back.

"If she wanted to beg she'd do it herself."

Her knees fall apart in front of him and he can't help but stare wildly between her legs at the wet shine of his release high on the inside of her thighs, slipping out of her body and around the elastic of her underwear until she's soaked with it, stained with it.

"I'm a liar," she tells him, or _him_, both of them. It doesn't matter she's looking forward, staring at him. Langdon just smiles behind her, self satisfied, pompous, _he's_ always right.

"Heh. You're cute," Langdon presses a sloppy, endearing kiss to her cheek, excited like a little boy. Amused.

"I hate you," she's talking to him.

"He doesn't care," _he _tells her with a conspiratorial whisper.

"Go aw-…"

"Stay," it's a command.

"Violet," it's a plea.

"Don't say my name."

"Violet." She turns her head towards the lips whispering it in her ear.

It's a smooth drag of all the vowels and a hiss at the end, and he watches how the way _he _says her name cause the ease of a lazy wave, half shiver, half arch, to roll over her small frame, how she lets it.

It makes him angry, he flings her panties across the room once he's yanked them down her skinny legs and off from around her ankles with little fanfare. Langdon can say her name and have it make shiver but he's the one with his face between her legs and his tongue tracing his name on her clit and he bets he can get her to moan.

And he _knows _he can get her to cry. He's gotten good at making her cry; he doesn't even have to be around for her to do it. It's a wry thought that making her cry is what he's best at lately.

"…," she does nothing but twitch her hips up when he licks long and slow in one firm swipe. He doesn't even think she breathes.

"You're so pretty. I bet your pretty down there too, bet you have a cute pussy. I'm jealous he gets to see it."

He shoots a look at his twin but he doesn't notice, he finds her staring down at him instead.

"…don't look at me," she scowls and he flicks his tongue, she winces like she's in pain, she isn't, it makes him smirk against her and press his lips to the inside of her thigh and holding her stare until she tosses her gaze to the wall.

"She's _so_ embarrassed. She wants to cry."

Langdoncradles her chin and pulls her face close to his.

Tate watches.

"You're blushing," his twin tells her, Violet purses her lips like she's pissed off, a rumble a laughter comes from between her legs, she chokes on a sigh.

"Tell him you like it and I'll make sure he keeps his promise, I'll make sure he never leaves the basement to spy on you. I'll burn out his eyes with oven cleaner if you want and cut his tongue out with a pair of scissors because I like you, Violet. Say it. Tell him you like it."

"…," she pulls her jaw out of hisgrasp.

"No? That's funny. Because you still like him? Because I'd hurt him? Because you like it when he touches you at night? He does. He's a liar, he touches you. You know it's him. Or maybe you _do_ hate this. Do you hate this?"

He sees her eyes screw shut, her throat work, the space underneath her eyes is blotchy and swollen, she's going to cry.

"Violet," his voice is rough, it sounds like he's about to cry too.

Langdon rolls his eyes and makes a noise of irritation in his throat, "Keep. Going. She hasn't cum yet. She wants to and you're being a jerk by stopping."

"Stop touching her."

"You have to make her cry. Come on. Make her feel good."

"Stop it. Shut up," her lips quiver when she presses them shut and holds her breath to keep a sob in check.

"Yeah, shut up," The fingers in his hair aren't hers, they're his and they push his face back between her thighs.

"Touch me," her voice cracks.

It's awful and vile just how hard his dick twitches when he sees the thing with his face lick its fingers and trace her nipple before yanking it hard, and twist it violently enough to leave a bruise and soothe the sting with a tender rubbing thumb, the sharp edges of his ring leaving the tiniest of marks behind on her breast.

Tate makes sure to leave identical ones on the inside of her thigh with his own and pretends she's speaking to him and not his twin when his fingers slip between her folds and inside her body and he dabs her clit with the swell of his bottom lip, chapped and raw, tasting his own bitter, salty flavor on her wet skin.

She's puffing her breaths out into his twin's neck when she cums. She doesn't cry pretty. But he can't look at her without getting harder. She's so broken. Like him. It makes him happy.

"Wanna fuck her again?"

"…," his eyes snap up too fast for the answer to be anything but a resounding yes.

"He wants to fuck you again, what do you think?" Langdon nuzzles the collar of her shirt away from her shoulder, grazes the spot with his teeth and they both watch her shudder.

"I don't care what he wants," she breathes.

"You never got a chance to be on top before, right?"

Her legs fall shut and he's left watching hands identical to his slip under her shirt, pull it up, and watch her help take it off. Watch those hands that aren't his memorize the texture of her skin.

"Stop it," his plea goes ignored.

"I'll help you, come on."

She lets _him_ thread an arm around her waist, and drag her weight onto his thighs while he shifts closer.

"No."

Her eyes, snap open, focus, glassy and indistinct as they are, on his, "Shut up."

And her tiny hand reaches with _his_ to delve inside his briefs, pull him out, hard, already weeping at the head, hold him in a loose grip of too many fingers, he tries to shift away but it's for show, necessary because eagerness and honesty is never what he's been best at.

"Vi-…uhhh." He can't speak, his brain and lungs don't have enough blood in them to work properly since it's all circumvented to his dick slowly being pulled into her with the wet slink of her body slipping open around him, making room, as she lets _him _take all her weight like she's nothing but a doll made for someone else's pleasure, his pleasure and he loves _him_ for it, for making her so pliant. For making her willing to do anything to hurt him in the best worst way.

For making her want him, for pushing her so far past the point of _fuck it_ that all his misdeeds mean nothing.

She squirms and makes a sound he doesn't know the word for.

The sound cats make when they mate or fuck or get raped.

_Caterwaul._

He hears it like a purr in his head and Langdon smirks from behind her shoulder when she makes the sound again. Like she's in agony, like she's dying, like she hates them both, what they're doing to her.

"There you go. I bet it feels _so_ good."

Like she loves it.

Those black eyes move, he can tell because they shine like a flash of light over stagnant water, inky and indistinct and his twin frowns, "I don't mind but you wanna actually move?"

His own lips turn up in a snarl.

"Don't get pissy, I only have two arms."

"Move," she murmurs, a low hum.

He does, Langdon pulling her up and rocking back when he pulls halfway out, and then they both move, him forward and Langdon letting her drop down, slide from a tight grasp onto his dick. Her feet arch against the floor and her body twists, thrusts up, pulls back, dances between them.

"You two fuck each other?" She asks on the end of a smothered gasp. His brother laughs, "Would you fuck yourself if you could?"

"I don't know," she admits.

"Fair enough. I know what he tastes like, do you?"

"Not like that."

Her head falls back, and he wants to lick the harsh lines of her throat, suck a red and purple bruise into the delicate skin there right above her throbbing pulse.

"He looks lost when he cums. Don't close your eyes; you're missing the best part."

She opens them and finds him looking at her; she dodges his gazes and stares between them, where he's disappearing inside her body.

"Watching's the best part. See? Weird, right? But good, too. Seeing it. Really seeing it."

His brother watches, just as rapt at her at the sight of her cunt swallowing him up, greedy for every inch of him. He's missed this.

"You're so tiny, you know? Does it hurt?"

"…," she swallows heavily.

"Vi-uh-let," a mimic of his voice sing-songs.

"No," she answers finally, after a long, deep breath that pushes her chest into his for the briefest, barest moment.

"I hurt him and he likes it. He likes to hurt me."

"I bet he does."

"But I get back at him."

"Good."

Her eyes are like fire, shining, wild, pissed off, turned on, murderous. He widens his stance, thrusts, further, harder, her eyelids flutter and she doesn't quite swallow the moan she tries to not have him hear.

"You really love this," Langdon laughs into the damp skin of her brow. _He _looks at him, his lips already kissing the filthy words that he blows off his tongue, "She loves getting fucked. Bet she's missed it. A lot."

But a blink later those lips are on her skin again, lips like his, but they aren't. It doesn't matter, they feel like his, exactly the same, and he's not blind. She likes his mouth on her skin.

"Better than your fingers isn't it? That cock. Might as well have your name written on it. You're the only one he's wanted to put it in."

Her head lolls.

"Your eyes are closed."

Her eyelids part, weakly, and he realizes with her eyes closed she can't possibly know who's really speaking to her.

"I'm watching."

She is. He drags himself out slowly, the sound, the wet slink and damp sucking of her body nearly undoes him. The spot deep and low in his abdomen heats, coils, thrums.

"We talk about fucking you sometimes. Well…I do. He listens and then he hits me. He doesn't like thinking about me fucking you."

"Do you want me to shut him up?"

"I want _you_ shut up," she snarls.

_He_ chuckles.

"So mean. Would you let _me_ fuck you? Oh look, he's angry."

He glares over her shoulder at the boy who looks like him, smiling back at him.

"Maybe."

Her answer earns a brutal slap of his pelvis into hers. He hears the rumble lodged in her throat and her wet, shiny eyes are angry slits when he looks at her face.

"Maybe, huh?"

"Yeah, maybe."

"I hate you," he tells _him_.

"You love me."

"Kiss him."

They both startle at her words.

"What?"

It's Langdon, devoid of a smirk, with a dark hooded glaze coating his fathomless eyes.

"Do it," she insists.

_He _smiles at him.

"Give us a kiss. I wanna know what she tastes like."

He lunges and it's so much different than kissing her, it's a mash of lips and a gnashing teeth, a game of how much bruising it will take for one of them to stop trying to smother the other with a furious tongue and sharp canines. He stops thrusting, starts rocking hard into her, rutting up further inside her. Hitting places inside that feel good much too sharply.

"Ah!"

He breaks away from the spit shiny and cracked lips to gape at her face, her own mouth a soft open oval before her teeth take her bottom lip in her mouth and make it go white under the force of her bite.

He looks at her, quite suddenly takes in just how small she is in comparison, naked between them, her legs behind him, open wide and loose, barely holding any weight, seated half on his lap and half on the boy's behind her, _his _arms across her chest, around her waist, and his hands on her hip and the back of her shoulder, the curves of bone cradled in his slick palms, her arm twisted back and around to encircle his twin's neck gentle like a lover's should be and her other hand with fingers banded as much and as tight as they can be around his own bicep, her nails bruising sharp marks into his skin.

Every inch of skin is damp and pink and made unbearably hot between his body and his twin's. She moans, low like a hum, like a wounded animal and her eyes seal themselves shut, wrinkling the corners and her forehead harshly, her bottom lip blanching between her teeth, he pulls it out from between them and slips his tongue between them, she whines sharply but sighs hard into his mouth, letting him kiss her, her tongue slipping over his, hot and wet and snake-like against his own.

"She's close," he hears in his ear.

She's crying again. He fucking loves it.

"I know."

She stares back dumbly, her eyes eaten by the black of her exploded pupils, her lips plump and wet and red from his mouth and her teeth.

"She hates you."

He pushes his twin's head away, puts his own mouth on her ear.

"_I_ don't care."

He tells her, not _him_, he hisses it and she pushes her chest against his, the feel of small breasts smashed up against his chest makes his stomach shiver.

"Is she tight?"

"Like a fucking vice."

Her insides clench around him in response they hold him snug and she does it again, instinctually, the way she always has when he's talks into her ear, she shakes and a broken sob sounds out and he knows just how badly she hates him, hates herself, hates what they're doing, hates that she's missed it, hates that she likes it so damn much. She holds her breathe to have something to concentrate on and make her body stop throbbing around him, the wet grip of her body eases and flutters like a weak heart. He presses a kiss behind her ear and drags the edges of his teeth along the column of her throat.

Her abdomen falls inwards and concaves under her ribs and when he's moving out he lets out a throaty groan into her ear just so when he throws himself back inside her sweet little body she's already throbbing, pulling his swollen flesh back inside because that part of her missed him, even if the rest of her hasn't.

"I bet she's really wet."

"Duh."

He opens his eyes to roll them at his twin. Langdon just smiles back a little sheepish that he's stated something so dumb out loud.

"Was she a virgin again?"

"No."

"Too bad. I would have liked licking her blood off you."

She makes a sound, high and sharp at the words. Like she can't take it but wants it. Badly.

"She's _really_ close."

"I fucking know!"

"Well, _excuse_ me. Asshole."

"Fuck you."

"You fucking wish."

"I'll break you're fucking skull open."

"Kinky."

"I bet if she died again she'd come back a virgin."

"Who cares?"

Langdon scowls at him. At the dismissal, at being ignored.

"Do it," she gasps out, her voice rough and harsh between their identical faces.

"Do what?" He asks, he knows though.

"…," she arches her head, makes her neck one, long, pale, column.

"I'm not going to do that," he tells her.

"I will."

"Good."

"You wanna cum first?" Langdon asks.

"Don't." He warns.

But a hand that looks too much like his own closes on her throat, not with any real weight, not yet.

"Stop looking at me like that."

She puts a hand over his eyes.

"Violet," he can't help the whine in his voice as she blocks out her image with the darkness behind her palm.

"I can't stand the way you look at me," she says, her sob finally breaking.

"I love you."

"I don't care."

"You're so fucking adorable."

He grinds his teeth at the voice and the smile in it, at the sound of her choking, at how good it feels when she twitches and kicks and spasms around him. Her hand falls and she goes limp and her eyes are closed, soft, unknowing, unconcerned.

His hips still.

"Nuh-uh, keep going."

He doesn't.

"She's just unconscious. She came."

"I know she came you fucking idiot."

"Okay fine," Langdon shrugs.

"Let go of her neck."

"She asked me to."

"I'm not fucking her when she's dead."

"She already is dead, so are you."

"You know what I mean."

"Why does it matter?"

His brother looks pointedly down at where he's buried inside her, hard, dying to cum.

"It matters. Let go of her throat."

"Hurry up and finish."

_He_ pushes her body up into his. He can't help himself, he knows it sick, knows it depraved, knows it's wrong, knows she may already be dead for real for awhile but she's still warm and wet and tight and he needs to cum. He does. He stills, he slumps, rolls his hips and his twin laughs placing a chaste kiss on his brow that makes him pull back and scowl and makes _him_ giggle like a girl.

They untangle themselves and he arranges her limbs in some semblance of modesty that's impossible, he lifts her arms, rolls her shirt back onto her body, and straightens the hem, he starts looking for her panties.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm not leaving her like this."

"Oh god," his twin flops dramatically to the floor, lounging next to her still form on his side, tangling his fingers in her hair.

"Fuck off."

"Okay."

The words are too cheerful and when he looks over his shoulder it's to his doppelganger running her limp hand across the bulge of his arousal through the denim of his jeans.

"Stop it!"

Langdon does but his eyes are amused as he drops her hand with a dull thud, Tate flinches at the sound, "Help a guy out then."

"You're sick."

"Okay, yeah. Sure. Thanks."

"Go away."

"I could totally fuck her right now, doesn't bother me that she's dead dead. Dead chicks can't say no, not really. Might be kinda fun, actually. Especially when she opens her eyes and sees me, comes to, starts feeling it. Think she'll be scared? Maybe she'll_ like _it."

His fingers trace the inside of her sticky thighs.

"Stop it."

He's crossing the room and yanking the thing that looks like him off the floor.

"Give me one good reason."

Tate palms the bulge pressing into his thigh with a cupped hand, firm, kneading. _His_ head falls back.

"Nice reasoning."

"If you touch her, I'll hurt you."

He rubs harder.

"I understand."

"I don't think you do."

He squeezes.

"I do, we can only play if you're around to supervise. What's there not to understand?"

"Not ever, never again."

"She said 'maybe,' so maybe next time she'll want it to be me in her. Then after we can ask who she likes better. Maybe she'll want us both to fuck her. Maybe at the same time. That'd be fun."

"…," his hand stops, lifts, makes a fist, he knows Langdon sees it,_ lets_ it swing into his jaw, let's the force bring him to the floor.

"Yeah! Come on, hit me again."

He takes them to the basement. A blink, a breath, they're there. Same as always. They punch and kick and bite and pull at each other. Make each other hurt, make each other bleed. Eventually he's on his back and his head throbs from smashing into the floor with a crack, like always. Langdon presses into him, eyebrows hitching in surprise at what he feels.

"Again?"

Tate just nods back.

"Well, shit. What's this? Number three? Think you can come again?"

"Wanna find out?" He grins up at his twin.

"Yeah."

And they scramble to undo jeans and push down underwear and eventually it's just two identical swollen, sticky, angry looking hard-ons that come between them, not a girl, or mental illness, or a house where dead people live.

"Spit." Langdon spits, flecks of blood staining his palm, slicking them both up with haphazard swipes over sensitive flesh, and they both grunt and pull at each other.

They slide, wetly, frotting wildly with legs getting in the way, cramped space, and the cement floor making knees and shoulders raw and red.

"Hurry up, I dying here."

"Bullshit."

Langdon spurts hot and sticky onto his stomach, he follows and they slump, side by side on the cold floor, chests heaving, faces red, it reminds him of their first meeting over a decade ago, minus the mutual masturbatory activity.

"What if she comes looking for you and finds me?"

It's an honest question.

One he's thought about.

One he hates thinking about.

"Don't let her find you."

"You're starting to sound like me, you know?"

"What?"

"Starting to think like me, too."

"Shut up."

He kicks the thing next to him weakly, unamused but lazy.

"I wanna crawl inside your head sometimes."

He laughs. Because the notion is funny. He wants to tell the thing that looks like him that his head is exactly where _he_ crawled out of.

"And do what? Skull-fuck me?"

"It's easier like this, isn't it?"

"No, it's not. It's just as fucking bad as before, you still don't shut up."

Because even when he couldn't see _him_, _he_ was there. Talking, smirking, fucking with him. Now the fucking is just literal and reciprocal.

"At least you're not talking to yourself."

"I am talking to myself."

They breathe. They rest.

"She'll get over it. Where's she gonna go?"

Langdon smirks sideways at him. He rises, tucks himself back inside his jeans, wipes his bloodied lip with the back of his hand, stares at the smear and licks it off with the traces of release tingling on his tongue.

"Where are _you_ going?"

Langdon shrugs, "I don't know. I was thinking I'd find that crazy bitch and fuck her or something, maybe kill her, I don't know, she'll think she's doing you. I don't have a lot of options when it comes to getting off and you're great but you're missing important parts, like…yeah, you know. I wanna get fucked not fuck myself."

"Violet doesn't want you."

"She likes me and she's angry at you, that's enough."

Langdon leaves.

Tate sighs.

He bangs his head back against the floor and traces fingers through the cooling mess of semen on his stomach making his skin itch, knowing that the thing that looks like him and sounds like him is right.

* * *

><p>She's touching herself, under the covers, lying on her stomach. He knows. He lights one of her cigarettes.<p>

She stops moving, looks at the end table and finds her cigarettes missing, she makes a noise of irritation and pushes herself up on her hands, turns, sits, peers down at the end of her bed, he waves, she scowls, he takes a drag, she eyes the cigarette, he throws her the pack, she lights a cigarette, they smoke.

"Which one of us do you think about now?" He takes a puff.

"What do you want?" She exhales a cloud.

"Dumb question." He thumbs his filter.

"So was yours." She taps off ashes.

"You've changed." He inhales.

"Everyone changes." She watches the curls of blue smoke.

"He'll hurt you." He blows twin columns out of his nostrils.

"You hurt me." She pauses and takes a long drag.

He can't stand it. He gets up.

The ashtray smashes into the door.

"You're the same fucking person!"

"What?"

She's kneeling at the end of the bed, furious. Her shoulders are shaking.

"You think you're nothing like him, he _is_ you. He just does what you think about and you think about all the things he does. Who does that make more fucked up, you or him?"

"…"

"You're more angry over what he _could_ do than what you have done. I'm just a fixation for you, now."

"Bullshit."

"No. It's not."

"He doesn't love you."

"I know."

"Then why bother?"

"Because you don't either."

"…"

"Because this hurts you. That's why."

"What's wrong with you?"

"I'm dead. But I'm not. That's what's wrong with me." She gives him a look like he's retarded and just shit his pants. Shock, wry amusement, impatience.

"I'm sorry. For everything."

"Yeah, I know. But not enough."

He drops the cigarette and grinds it out in a sparking smear on the floorboards. "What do you want from me?"

"I want you to suffer."

"For how long?"

"Until it stops being fun."

"Violet. Please."

"Please what? What are you asking for? Forgiveness? Fuck you. _That's _what's bullshit, Tate. That's isn't what you want, you don't care, you don't feel bad. Don't pretend. I'm not an idiot, I'm not a stupid little girl. Okay? Don't treat me like one and feed me a line." She makes every point with a little head jerk and a small smile and he's brought back to the past when it was everyone but him she used to cut down with words. Now it's just him.

"I'm glad you died."

"…" Smoke curls out of her mouth, drifting, wafting, disappearing.

"I would have done it myself if you hadn't. Eventually."

"Why?"

"Because I want you."

"…"

"Because you're smart and pretty and funny and mean and make this place less boring and I really like fucking you."

"I _amuse_ you, Tate."

"Yeah, I guess." He shakes his head because the words aren't the right ones. "Yes. You do." He nods to himself at the affirmation. She nods back, satisfied with the answer before flopping back onto the bed with her cigarette clenched between her teeth.

"I'm fucked up," she tells him when he crawls onto the bed and lies on his back next to her, her words lower and grumbly because of the half-finished cigarette in her mouth.

"Me too."

"Obviously," she smirks sideways at him.

It reminds him of someone.

He gets why he likes Langdon so much.

_He's_ like Violet.

He likes Violet.

Violet likes herself, hates herself, hates them, loves him, loves _him_.

They're exactly the same. He forgot.

She didn't.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Shameless smut that needed to get written, thank you **ohyellowbird** for letting me borrow "Langdon," he's just oddles of fun to write. This whole thing was just so freaking fun to write. And for some reason I kept writing loves as love's and hates as hate's, over and over at the end of this, good thing I caught that, some of you may have flayed me alive as I deserve to be from misplaced apostrophes. Good lord I silently asked myself if I had had a stroke at some point. Weird.

Recs:

_-Midnight Of The Sun_ by **Unveiled Creativity**: Priceless Tate and Constance back and forth.

-_I have become comfortably numb_ by **loginandgetresults**: AU, Violate, you don't even have to know about AHS or Violate to read this an like it, mostly because the pairing could be anyone from anything, ever, reads kind of like an original work but oh my god the sex, while high, dude, like hilarious and hot and weird in the best ways.

_-Yesterday is done Tomorrow never comes_ by **loginandgetresult**: First person POV, Tate and Violet, read and reread because you'll catch things on the subsequent reads that you didn't pick up the first time, it's lovely and sad and tongue in cheek funny.


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